


Scar on My Pride

by VolxdoSioda



Series: IgCor Week 2019 [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Gen, IgCor Week Day 1: Courtship, preslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-22 23:55:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20000584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VolxdoSioda/pseuds/VolxdoSioda
Summary: Ignis never expects his crush on the Marshal to go anywhere. But it's hard to give up when the man listens to his woes, looks after him, and cooks for him.Still, it can't mean anything... right?





	Scar on My Pride

“Bad day?”

It takes him a second to hear the words through the blood rushing in his ears, but Ignis manages to lift his head after a moment, and spies the Marshal on his office doorstep, one eyebrow slightly raised as he regards Ignis.

“No. Merely a very  _ long  _ day. My apologies, Marshal. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting long.” 

“Hardly. I’m your escort to the chambers today.”

Ignis gathers his papers methodically, tucks them carefully into the folder he’s placed off to the side, turns off his computer. Tucks a pen into his pocket and then nods at Cor. “After you, then.”

As much as he’d rather hide behind this desk for the rest of the day and sort through numbers and clinical reports about Insomnia at large, he is unfortunately in a high enough position to where he needs to meet with the important people from time to time, and deal with the nastiness of politics.

Today is one such day. The council is gathering for a discussion concerning a tentative treaty with Niflheim, and while it’s certainly not the first time such a thing has been brought up, it’s the first time it’s been put on the table following the capture of so much territory. Only Insomnia herself remains free from the Emperor’s reign now, and it has everyone a little bit peeved. Particularly the Galahadians, who are rightful to have their anger, but misplaced it at the feet of their King.

Noctis said it best, once.  _ It’s like they expect him to just flip a switch and suddenly it’ll make everything okay again.  _

That’s the problem with being King. When you rule more than just yourself, people often forget the intricacies and details of your decisions. As much as everyone might demand and whine and scream, Regis Lucis Caelum can’t simply go out and drive the armies of Niflheim back out of the territories and reclaim them. The difference in the size of the armies alone is too vast, never mind all the new anti-magic tech Niflheim has at their disposal now. The only reason the Wall has yet to be breached is because the Ring operates with magic that has now been scrubbed from the world; an older magic that relies less on logic, and more on a combination of belief and willpower. 

Something like that can’t be overturned so easily. But everything beyond the Ring is easily up for grabs, and Lucis does not have the resources needed to put everything they own at the same level as that. Not like they could, even if they wanted to; not at this point in the war, where it’s simply a waiting game.

“I know I don’t need to tell you this,” Cor says as they walk, “But I’m going to anyway. It’s going to be bad in there today. So tell me honestly Ignis - can you keep your head on straight?”

“Of course.” Nevermind that his temper is already simmering away from a combination of Noctis being particularly bratty today, a brewing sinus infection he can feel kicking it’s way through the antibiotics he’s been taking, and people being particularly incompetent today of all days. He can compartmentalize all that, shove it deep into a box in his head to be dealt with later, when Gladio is available. If they need him on the floor being the level-headed, cold Hand to the Prince, then he will do so. 

Yet the way Cor regards him feels very much like the man knows this. Which perhaps is why Cor suddenly turns right, taking them not the most direct path to the chambers, but around the longer way, through the gardens. 

_ He’s giving me a chance to compose myself,  _ Ignis realizes, and half a second later, Cor asks, “Anything you’d like to get off your chest while you have the chance?”

Ignis can’t help it, he snorts. “Marshal, with all due respect, I’m not going to unload myself onto you when you already deal with more than enough stress and strife.”

Cor’s lips twitch. “Whyever not? Everyone else certainly does. It’s a perk of being upper management. They complain to you, and you bottle it up and never let it go.”

“Rather like the first coffee of the morning.”

This time it’s Cor who snorts. “Now you’re getting it.”

They lapse into silence for a moment. Once they reach the gardens proper, Cor’s pace slows a bit, and then again the deeper in they get. They still have a good hour before the session is due to start in earnest, but Cor and Ignis have always shown up early, if only to stop people hashing out alliances behind their backs.

Maybe it’s the atmosphere, or maybe part of Ignis’ brain shuts down and his emotions override his logic, but he finds himself speaking softly. “I do love Noctis with all my heart. I will serve him gladly when he becomes King, and I will be proud of him no matter what, but sometimes I do find myself worrying if he’s ever going to grow past this.”

Cor makes a soft little noise of understanding. They’ve all seen what Noctis can be - the moments when he stands tall and makes decisions on his own, when he carves his own path. Those moments have left Ignis breathless with wonder, and so proud he could cry.

But there are other moments. Moments like today, when Noctis, snarly and surly, stayed in bed, his apartment an utter mess, and smacked Ignis’ hand away when the man attempted to help him dress. When his temper overtakes him, and like a child throwing a temper tantrum, he shoves them away, when he locks his doors and refuses to let them in. When every effort to help him gets flung back in their face, or they get treated like they don’t deserve to be there. 

Sometimes, it’s his depression hitting a downswing. Other times, it’s hormones. Those things at least, Ignis understands, and can work through. But there are plenty of times when it’s not either of those things, and instead it’s just… Noctis. Those times, like today, Ignis can’t understand. 

“This is a battle he has to fight on his own,” Cor states. “Much as we would all prefer otherwise. I’ve told Gladio before, when he’s come to me on the matter, but Noctis will likely only lose this state of himself when he becomes King. Regis behaved similarly when we were younger, before he had the weight of the crown to contend with.”

“He did?” The thought of King Regis in Noctis’ place this morning boggles his mind. 

Cor nods. “Mornings we’d wake up and he’d be a bear, and nothing anyone did could calm him. Even Wesk couldn’t soothe him. Logic did nothing. Food, fun activities, relaxing, a decent lay, nothing would make him happy. And Regis told me that his own father apparently had similar issues. I suspect it’s anxiety over the future - he knows one day his father will no longer be here, that every decision made will be his own, and the ramifications of those decisions will be on him to bear. That his word will decide who lives and who dies, what happens to us. And that scares the shit out of him.”

“As it should,” Ignis says softly. “It is no small thing, being King.”

“No, it isn’t. Which is why we place so much importance on the King’s supporting web. We are protectors, guardians and keepers to the King himself as much as we are to the kingdom he rules. One day, you and Gladio and Prompto will be where we stand now, and you will feel every failing Noctis makes, and every victory you find. It will age you. It will change you. And you will look back at the now and regret every being upset over so little a thing.”

“Do you?” Ignis blurts. “Regret, I mean?”

Cor nods. “Every damn day. Those times we snapped at Regis for snapping at us, we should have been calmer. But we were like you - we saw sections and parts. We couldn’t crawl inside his head and live there for a day, else maybe we would have been a little more sympathetic. The saying goes ‘heavy is the crown’, but nobody ever thinks about the true weight of it. What it does to a person. How it changes them, and their outlook on life as a result.” He glances at his watch, and hums. “Right, we’ve wasted enough time. It’s almost time for the session to start.”

Cor’s words certainly give him something to chew on as they walk the rest of the way to the chambers. Yes, Ignis has always known on some level that Noctis struggles with what he must do to become a good king. And yes, he’s known that Noctis is still fighting tooth and nail to be a good Prince, a good son to a father he rarely sees nowadays. But somehow it’s escaped him, the thought that it’s sheer fear that drives Noctis’ anger in all this. That his lashing out is his only way of getting that fear out of his body. Or that the men before him would have had similar fears.

Ignis carefully packs the thoughts away for further dissection later as they enter the chamber, and find several people already sitting, waiting like they normally do. Ignis nods to Cor, who remains outside to see to the security, and finds his usual spot up in the high corner of the room, the better to keep an eye on everyone. A few times during the sessions, tempers have gotten particularly hot, and things have been thrown. If Ignis can see the trouble ahead of time, he can flag someone down to stop it before it gets out of hand. 

The council files in shortly before the King himself arrives, and it’s only once Regis is seated, Clarus in place on his direct right, that the session begins.

“We’ve come to discuss the possibility of a treaty with Niflheim,” Regis says, and Ignis sees the flash of steel in his eyes, the slight tension in his jaw that speaks of knowing what will unfold before him today. “I will hear your arguments.”

It is, true to everyone’s expectations, a very long, very trying session.

  
  


x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Emerging from the chamber after nearly twelve solid hours of arguing, Ignis finds the sun has begun to set, and the guards outside have changed shift nearly full rotation. Cor however, remains precisely where he was when Ignis went inside, calmly at attention, not a single muscle twitching even as grumbling council members and dignitaries file past. Ignis neatly sidesteps an arguing pair, and leans against the wall to catch his breath.

After the first round of listening to everyone’s similar arguments, he’d finally put in his own two cents - namely benefits to the treaty as well as downfalls nobody else seemed to have been focused on. That of course, had brought several nasties out of hiding, and Ignis had gone to war with them over what they were determined to dismiss. By the time everything had been said and done, he’d nearly gotten the entire chamber after him, and was fending off attacks on his honor, dignity, and even the question of his position to the Prince. All petty things, designed to waylay him from his objective.

Clarus had been forced to step in no less than six different times, and the King twice, when certain men of the realm refused to let Ignis go so easily. It would have humbled and warmed Ignis normally, to be so guarded by the King himself, but now he’s merely exhausted; his voice worked hoarse, his sinus infection in full swing, or shortly to be, and his legs feeling numb. He’s ready to collapse where he stands, and sleep for the next thirty six hours, propriety be damned.

Except Noctis is probably home from school by now, or will be shortly, and given Ignis didn’t prepare a meal beforehand, having only estimated an eight hour screaming match for today, it means he needs to drive down and cook, and pray that by now Noctis is in a better mood. And then of course he has his own coursework to look through, and the reports from last month to finalize and send off, and then--

“Stop.”

Cor steps into his space, crowding him, his presence demanding Ignis’ utmost attention. It’s easy to focus on him rather than all the list of things he’s got going in his head - especially when his head feels like it wants to pop.

Cor takes his elbow in an easy grip, and starts guiding him down the hallway. “Here’s what you’re going to do,” he states. “You are going to go home, and sleep. If you’re hungry, you will cook for yourself. Not yourself and Gladio and Noctis and Prompto. Gladio has already gotten Prince Noctis home, and they’ve gotten food on the way.”

“His diet--”

“Can be fixed. You’ve done enough today, Ignis. Go home. Rest. Tomorrow you can put together all the lists you want. But tonight I expect you to get yourself patched up. That’s an order.”

Ignis can’t help but huff a bit. “With all due respect, Marshal, it was only a session. I’m fine.”

“You aren’t. Earlier today you were wincing and rubbing at your nose like it hurt, and even now you look like you’re not in any mood to be dealing with anything. You’ll be no help to anyone if you don’t take care of yourself.Unless that’s beyond your capabilities?”

“I can take care of myself fine,” Ignis snarls, and then realizes the trap he’s just fallen into when Cor  _ smirks. _

“Prove it,” he taunts, and lightly nudges Ignis towards where the Star is parked. “I’ll see you there myself.”

“You devil of a man.”

“It’s your job to look after Noctis. It’s my job to look after everyone. You’re not an exception just because you’re a little sharper than most, Scientia. Hell, if anything, I have to look after you sharp ones more because you’re more prone to getting yourselves killed.”

And truly, Ignis can’t argue with that. Especially because he knows himself, and he knows Gladio, and he knows what they both would do to keep Noctis alive and breathing. So in this, Cor is absolutely correct; shoulders slumping, Ignis lets himself be guided to the car.

He doesn’t expect to fall asleep. And yet somehow it happens, probably between lights, given the radio is low, the sun setting fast, and the motion of the car is smooth enough to lull Ignis down. 

Yet he wakes in his apartment, in his own bed, the door shut and locked, his shoes off, his jacket folded over the edge of his chair, his glasses in their case by the bed. The clock reads 2:22 in the morning. Ignis stares at it, and then yawns and rolls back over to sleep for another four hours before he has to get up. 

_ Note to self, buy Cor a coffee for getting me home safe. And possibly make him breakfast, as an apology for falling asleep in the car. _

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

  
  


In the end, Ignis does both; he makes breakfast for himself, and then makes double portions for Cor. It’s nothing fancy; merely a breakfast wrap stuffed with potatoes, bacon, sausage, eggs, onions, chives and cheese. The true specialty of the hour is the coffee he makes; grown from a special breed of bean his grandfather’s family in Altissia cultivated several generations ago. It’s the pride and well-kept secret of his line, occasionally gifted to those who deserve or need it. 

Cor is an avid coffee drinker, and falls into both such categories. And so he gets an especially tall to-go mug, filled to the brim with the black liquid, no cream or sugar added. Ignis knows for a fact the man has both in his office, as well as a coffee pot of his own - Cor distrusts the mess hall’s coffee - so if he should want either added, he can do it himself. 

Hopefully though, he drinks it black, so he can taste the full depth of the roast. Ignis is looking forward to seeing his reaction. He eats his own wrap and then carefully tucks Cor’s away in a container made to keep the heat in, so it and the coffee will stay warm on the trip over. It doesn’t take long to get to the Citadel; at most, a rough fifteen minutes in bad traffic, five if Ignis takes the back way and speeds a little. 

Today, the traffic is light, and the parking is available closer to the building for once, so Ignis strolls up to the sixth floor, where Cor is located. The door is open, and the guards along the wall all greet him with a nod as he passes. He pokes his head in, but Cor’s back is to him, though he’s neither on the phone or filling out paperwork. Taking that as a good sign, Ignis steps inside, rapping on the open door lightly to inform Cor he’s here.

Cor’s office isn’t anything spectacular or particularly fancy; simple stone flooring, a single rug beneath the desk in a solid, rich red. Bookshelves, nooks and crannies filled neatly with books, paperwork, folders and a few pictures of himself, Regis and Clarus line the three walls. The bare necessities, so to speak. No radio, no comfort objects, no distractions. Pure and straightforward, much like Cor himself.

“Ignis, what did I say last night about cooking for yourself and  _ only  _ yourself?”

Ignis looks down at the hot homebrew of coffee in one hand, the to-go box of steaming breakfast he made in the other. Cor hasn’t even looked up from whatever he’s doing, hell the man hasn’t even  _ turned around,  _ and yet--

“If he doesn’t want it, can I have it?” One of the younger guards pokes his head in, flashing big blue eyes up at Ignis with a friendly smile. The same smile and look Noctis offers when he wants something. Ignis returns the smile, amused. It’s cute, how the young ones all act similar when they want something. It’s like watching a bunch of puppies run for treats.

Unfortunately, Cor whips around, a scowl fixed to his face. “Rodgers, out! Scientia, give.”

Rodgers, in the face of his boss’ ire, just giggles and retreats out the door, giving Ignis one last nod before resuming his former position.

Ignis cocks an eyebrow, feeling oddly confident. “Is there a ‘please’ attached to that, Marshal?”

Cor snorts. “You didn’t follow orders and take care of yourself, so no, I don’t think you deserve one. But also, if that’s your homebrew coffee, I will fight you for it. So either you hand it over, or you start running.”

For a moment, the mental image of himself turning tail and bolting out the door enters Ignis’ mind. Then Cor tackles him from behind, the coffee going spilling everywhere, the food lies forgotten as the men drags him back into the office by his ankle, and the door slams shut. It’s not an entirely  _ unpleasant  _ scenario, granted in his head there’s a few less people milling about.

_ Stop that,  _ Ignis tells himself firmly as his body heats in reaction. He knows he can’t blame Cor for being as… appealing as he is. But he can certainly put a cap on his own hormones concerning the subject; the man is nearly old enough to be his father, and even if that weren’t an issue, he’s probably received such offers plenty enough over his lifetime. He would probably find Ignis’ own offer trite and irritating at best, and downright offensive at worst. 

No, best not to start what he can’t ever finish, Ignis laments, and puts both coffee and box on the corner of the desk. Then what Cor said earlier catches up to his brain, and he hastily snatches the coffee back a second before Cor’s hand closes on the cup. The little growl the man makes in response sends shivers down Ignis’ spine and makes the hair on his body stand on end. 

“Scientia.”

“You know about my homebrew? Who told?” When the man slowly stands up from his desk, Ignis takes a cautious step back. If he’s quick, he can leap out the window and roll out of the way before Cor grabs him. If nothing else, the coffee can be tossed aside as a distraction. He’s liable to pay for it in blood later, or at the very least, in a spar or twelve that will have him wishing for death.

Cor snorts. “You think everyone who's ever had a sip of that has kept their mouths shut? Rumors fly about that stuff. My men have been trying to figure out where you get it from so they can get their hands on it, and hell, even Drautos wants some. Which reminds me, if you’re smart, you’ll stay out of the Kingsglaive barracks unless you want to be interrogated.”

“I would never talk.”

“Oh trust me, they have their ways. And I have mine. So.” His eyes narrow. “Fight or surrender, Scientia. I’m not particularly picky on which.”

Ignis stares him down a second more, and then cautiously asks, “You will say nothing?”

Cor rolls his eyes, which is answer enough. Ignis once again deposits the brew on Cor’s desk, where it’s snatched up half a second later, and sipped. The only reaction is a soft little sigh, and then Cor turns his attention to the box. 

One would think food would put Cor the Immortal in a better mood, but no. If anything, his dour expression only returns with vigor, and he fixes a glare to the side of Ignis’s face. “And how long did this take you?”

“I was making my own alongside it,” Ignis replies tartly, refusing to be cowed. When Cor’s stare hardens, he puts hands on hips and widens his stance. “It’s a gift for seeing me home safely last night, after you  _ tricked me  _ into falling asleep in the car!”

“It’s trickery to use a known workable tactic against your enemies now, is it?”

“So I’m your enemy?”

“When you’re moody and refusing to back down and fucking  _ take care of yourself,  _ then yes Scientia,  _ you are  _ my enemy.”

The words are said so matter-of-fact it throws Ignis for a moment. He doesn’t let it hold him long. “I can take care of myself, Marshal. I’ve been doing it since I was  _ eight.” _

And he has, for the most part. His uncle dotes on him, loves him, but he’s halfway across the sea in Altissia. His parents have always favored his sister more than he, no matter how brilliant and noteworthy his accomplishments. They’ve petted his head and told him the honor he brings to their line with his achievements, but it’s all rang hollow. King Regis is the first thing like a father he’s had, and even after a time that’s faded into a kind of distant relationship, with the King trying to hold the Wall every waking moment as Niflheim seeks a way through.

Ignis Scientia has been looking after himself for a very long time. He knows his limits, knows how much work he can take on before he must stop. And if sometimes he says  _ just a little more  _ or pushes harder on himself for the sake of someone else, that is nobody’s business but  _ his. _

Or at least, it was.

Cor’s look doesn’t soften one iota. “You’ve learned the art of minimal survivalism, Ignis. Don’t you dare confuse  _ that  _ for taking care of yourself. Taking eight hours to sleep and then immediately getting up to run yourself ragged all over again leaves you just as vulnerable as when you started. If you refuse to slow down, you’re going to burn out. Take it from someone whose been there, done it, and gotten burned.”

He stands. “If you’re so determined to insist on your well-being however, then you can join me in the private training rooms upstairs in fifteen minutes for a spar.”

_ Damn it all to hell. _

Cor’s spars are nothing like what the Crownsguard recruits do, or even the Kingsglaive. Cor spars blindfolded and unarmored, nothing but a pair of pants on him, and the sharpest sword in his hand. He expects his opponent to be the same - blindfolded, stripped down, and wielding whatever the sharpest tools they can afford are. Ignis has fought Cor three times, and each time he’s come out of those rooms feeling like he’s gone toe-to-toe with Death itself.

It’s not a good feeling, truth be told. It leaves him on edge, trembling, ready to drop, utterly mindless to anything but sheer instinct. It’s one of the very few times his mind shuts itself off, and his gut and instinct leads him. There’s no thought to what he does, it’s pure action and reaction. 

The last time he’d been in those rooms, he’d been sixteen, fresh off the cusp of being declared the to-be king’s Hand. The one who would take on the burden of almost everything in Noctis’ life. He’d been excited, thrilled, and proud. And then Cor had taken him to those rooms, and all that achievement had burned itself out in a matter of seconds as Cor had shown him just how very far he had to go. 

Even now, the thought of being made blind and put into a room with what amounts to a man-sized coeurl leaves his stomach queasy, his nerves tested and his body in a cold sweat. But he also knows this isn’t Cor  _ asking  _ him - this is the Immortal  _ telling  _ him. He’s gone and tested the man’s temper by insisting he can take care of himself, and now the man is demanding proof of that claim. 

Ignis sighs. He’s been had, in more ways than one. Cor knows him too well - the car, the food, and now this. He’s outmatched.

“Very well. I will be there shortly.”

“If I have to come looking for you, you’re going to regret it.”

_ I’m going to regret it no matter what,  _ Ignis almost says, but doesn’t, but the gleam in Cor’s eyes right before he leaves the room tells Ignis the man knows anyway.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

He hits the ground, and does not move.

Above him, his enemy waits, patient. Eternally patient. 

He tries to lift himself, but his body refuses to cooperate. His muscles tremble and scream, his skin too slick to help lift him from the mats beneath him. His heart rate is too high, his breathing too rushed. He’s dizzy, and after a moment, he lowers himself back down. 

Failure.

“Again.”

Soft, detached. Still waiting. Knowing. Inside and out, always  _ knowing him,  _ sometimes more than he knows himself. “Again, Ignis. On your feet.”

His body does not want this. His mind is gone, blasted out by pain and the rush of adrenaline, the bite of the Immortal’s sword against his skin a warning all it’s own. If he thinks, he's dead. If he plans, he’s dead. He can’t think, he must move. He can’t plan, he must react.

He can’t stop. He must obey. 

And so, his legs come under him. His hands push against the mat, and his body strains itself, heaving upwards. He shakes as he stands, teeth grit and body sliding, but he does it. Listing side-to-side, he stands and sways, and waits for the final blow to come. He’s outmaneuvered, outdone, but there is no retreat. He will fight until the Immortal decides to end it. 

Movement; a small shift in the air at most. Ignis throws his daggers up and deflects a blow that sends his balance off, and then another, and another, practically tripping over his own feet as he fights to stay up as his enemy strikes him harder and harder, sword practically a whip. 

At last Ignis hits the wall and can go no further. The strikes don’t stop, and each one slams him against the padded wall at his back. Sweat slides down his back, making it all the more perilous. He could dodge to the side, but it still wouldn’t help. He’s exhausted, driven to the breaking point.

And yet, hadn’t he been the one to start all this? 

He grips his daggers tighter, doesn’t let his guard come down even as the blows hammer harder, fighting to break through. It won’t be long; his arms are straining even now, every muscle in pure agony. 

True to expectation, what feels like mere seconds later, his muscles finally give up the ghost; his daggers drop from his hands, and while Cor’s blade stops a good amount from where he would have struck next, even if it hadn’t stopped it would have only hit wall as Ignis himself slides sideways and down, hitting the mat again with a soft sound of depressed air. 

This is it. He can go no further. His limits have been sorely tested, and have been found utterly lacking. And he dares to call himself the future king’s Hand like this. 

He would very much like to get up and take a hot shower, put on some soft clothes and crawl into bed, but his legs aren’t working. Instead he lays there as Cor lowers his weapon, and then listens as he wipes it, before putting it back in its sheath.

It’s over.

With that final, jarring thought, Ignis passes out.

  
  


x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

He doesn’t expect to wake up in water, of all things. A steaming hot bath, water up to the middle of his chest, head leaning back against a towel pressed up against the side of the tub. Despite the harsh training he endured earlier, his muscles aren’t giant knots of pain. Probably thanks to the tub. 

He blinks a couple times to get his bearings, and then reaches over into the corner where a towel and his glasses are waiting. With his vision back, he can make out a bathroom he’s never seen before, or at least one he can’t recall at this time. Carefully, he tests his legs and finds them willing to carry him, and then gets himself out of the tub. 

Footsteps. He hastily wraps the towel around himself just as Cor rounds the corner, a cup of what looks like water and something small and white held in his other hands.Cor doesn’t look surprised to see him up and moving. “Good, you’re up. How do you feel?”

“Surprisingly not in pain,” Ignis jokes, and then sobers. “You should have left me on the floor.”

Cor shakes his head. “I told you, Ignis. I look after everyone, but especially the sharp ones. Sometimes that means dragging you back down to earth when you’ve gotten a little too full of yourself. And that means being the one to pick you up when you hit limit and collapse.” He offers water and pills. “Here. Pain medication - just the standard stuff, but it should dull whatever the hot bath and salts didn’t take care of.”

Now that he’s able to feel a little more, some of his skin does feel a bit slick. Humbled by his superior’s willingness to help him so much, Ignis tucks his towel into place and takes both water and pills, hastily swallowing them down. “My thanks for a third time, Marshal. I would likely be dead without you.”

“Hardly anything so dramatic. But you’d probably have quite a bit more grey hair, and your body wouldn’t be in any condition to do much by the time you hit thirty. Don’t rush yourself into death, Ignis. It isn’t pretty, and all it does is leave you with bad nicknames like ‘The Immortal’.” He rolls his eyes. “Honestly, the day Clarus conjured that up, I wanted to slap him.”

“Have you?”

“I’ve beaten his ass on the training fields, which is the closest I’m ever liable to get. Your clothes are in here.”

Folded neatly on a bed, in a room he now knows is likely Cor’s. That makes him wonder if they’re still in the Citadel or not - he’s never seen the man leave, but that could just mean he’s taken a different way out. 

“I had them washed and dried while I waited for you to wake. Figured you didn’t want to go back out into the real world in sweaty clothing.”

“I’m surprised the maids didn’t ask questions,” Ignis admits as he throws his shirt on, and then ducks behind a nearby folding screen with his pants and undergarments. Although if Cor undressed him, the man probably saw a lot earlier - and that certainly makes his face burn. Still, no reason to go making himself seem easy. 

“I didn’t hand them to the maids. I took care of it myself.” When Ignis pokes his head around the screen in confusion, Cor says, “I’ve machines here, on site. Not very big ones, but big enough for a single shirt and some pants. And you don’t need to worry - I read the tags and ran yours separate from mine. You should still get several years out of that clothing, supposing your Prince doesn’t run you ragged.”

For a moment, all Ignis can do is stare at Cor. There’s something - he can’t explain it, can’t even put it to words, and Six how utterly  _ frustrating  _ \- but there’s something there, something important, about this whole scenario. That a man would pay so much time and attention to something so simple as Ignis’  _ clothing.  _ A single comfort object - yet Cor has paid attention to the thought that after he’s done running Ignis ragged, perhaps Ignis would prefer clean, comfortable clothing over however he was wearing them before.

It makes his heart beat spike, and the blood in his body heat. He doesn’t understand it, can’t imagine  _ why  _ that’s such an important detail. And yet instinct tells him it is, it is very important, and Ignis has never ignored such instincts. 

“Thank you again, Cor,” he says softly, as he finishes pulling his pants on and reaching for his belt. “You’ve done… well. Just thank you.”

Cor huffs an amused breath of air out of his nose. “I’ve hardly done much,” he comments. “But you’re more than welcome all the same. Next time, listen to what I tell you and I won’t have to beat you into the ground so hard.”

This time it’s Ignis who laughs. Sound logic, and coming from a superior at that. “As you wish,” he agrees. “I’ll keep an open mind.”

He emerges from behind the screen, and Cor hands him his phone. “Gladiolus has been ringing and your boys have been texting for the last two hours. You may want to get ahold of them and let them know I didn’t murder you. Noctis is threatening to come up here and use his Royal Authority to find out where the hell you are.”

Ignis groans; the last time Noctis had done that, it had been like overturning an anthill. The only person who’d been calm had been Regis himself, and that was merely because the man hadn’t been there at the time. When he’d gotten back however, he and Noctis had disappeared into his office for ten minutes, and when Noctis had returned, he’d been bright pink and had humble apologized to the staff at large for scattering them so. Evidently, his father hadn’t been impressed.

The thought of such a thing happening again isn’t particularly appealing, so he quickly scrolls through his list of contacts until he finds Gladio, and sends a message.

_ Noctis with you? _

**_Yeah he’s here, wya?_ **

_ I’m currently with the Marshal. We had a sparring session that lasted a bit longer than I anticipated. Apologies for the worry. Could you pass along to Noct that I am perfectly fine and he doesn’t need to rally the troops to come find me? _

**_Lol you remember that too huh. Kay yeah passed the message along, he’s freaking out_ **

_ Can you calm him? I’m afraid I’m still a ways out. _

**_Sure np. Say hi to the marshal and take care of yourself ig, i got things under control here_ **

“Gladiolus sends his regards,” Ignis mutters, and Cor chuckles softly. “And as far as I am now aware, the cavalry has been called off. For now.”

“For now,” Cor agrees. “You hungry?”

Ignis feels his cheeks flush pink. “I wouldn’t want to intrude - truly, you’ve done enough--”

“Ignis, I wouldn’t offer if you were intruding. And I’m not about to send the soldier I just finished peeling off the floor off without a decent meal. I don’t do that during group training sessions with the Glaives, and I’m not going to do it with you. So, are you hungry?”

To Ignis’ ultimate horror, his stomach answers for him, growling loud enough to make Ignis’ face burn. 

“Well then,” Cor says, a touch smug. “Breakfast it is.”

“Oh just let me  _ die,”  _ Ignis whispers at himself, but judging by the faint snickering he hears as Cor leaves, the Marshal heard that too.

Fantastic.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

  
  


Having never witnessed Cor’s cooking, Ignis doesn’t quite know what to expect. 

It certainly however, is not someone who cooks similarly to himself. 

The meal that Cor slides before him is worthy of any five-star restaurant in Altissia, or indeed, something seen at the King’s own banquet hall. Ignis finds himself staring as Cor says, “It’s not much, but hopefully you enjoy it.”

“Not  _ much?”  _ Ignis croaks, and feels his mouth water at the sight. He wants to know the recipe - he can make out some of it, and his nose can detect Galahdian spices, perhaps even Altissian, but there’s more to the meal. He can sense it. “Mashal, this is a literal  _ feast.” _

Cor raises an eyebrow, amused. “Hardly. Nothing next to your own works of art.”

“Works of--.” He finds his cheeks burning. “You’ve seen my cooking?”

“A few times. I’ve snuck in for something to eat or drink, but you’ve usually been too busy with whatever you were working on. I think the last time was when you were trying to recreate that childhood pastry of Noctis’s. It was very good, by the way. Made my mouth water, and I don’t even care for sweets.”

That had been two weeks ago. Ignis shakes that feeling off again - the feeling that he’s touched by the Marshal caring about something so  _ small  _ as what he cooks. “I must insist, though, that this is… amazing. Truthfully I expected…” He tries to put it to words that don’t come out as  _ something any other man might cook like.  _

Cor evidently sees the line of his thinking however, and nods. “When I was younger, before Regis, I would have given you that. But after watching Weskham so much, I got curious. I asked him to teach me a few tricks, and him and Cid did. I don’t put a lot of stock in presentation like you do, but I make sure whatever I do cook will keep you going for a few hours.”

Ignis is starkly reminded of all the times he’s gone past the mess hall, and heard people chattering about  _ “nothing like that guy’s cooking, that’s for sure.''  _ He'd always assumed the recruits were talking about his own habits, but now he’s left wondering if perhaps they weren’t referring to the Marshal. 

“I’m honored you would let me share in your craft, Marshal,” Ignis offers with a slight bow. “Truly, thank you.”

“It’s just food, Ignis.” Cor waves him off. “For goodness’ sake, sit down and eat. And you don’t need to keep thanking me. It’s been a pleasure having you around.” 

Ignis feels his cheeks heat, but doesn’t bring attention to it. Instead he does as the man bids - he sits down and eats. The food is divine, and Ignis wonders if this is what his own cooking is like for Noct and the others. He likes to think so. 

“Coffee?”

“How black is it?”

“How black do you  _ want  _ it?” Cor offers back, and then pulls a trick that makes the coffee taste as black as Ebony. 

Ignis takes a sip, and then with a straight face, declares, “Please marry me sir.”

Cor’s laughter is music to his ears. “Ask me out on a date first, Scientia,” he grins. “I don’t put out on the first meal.”

Ignis tries for a seductive pout, but he can’t keep the face straight, and winds up covering up infectious laughter that only gets worse the longer it goes. His sides hurt by the time it’s over, but the ice between them has been effectively broken. 

“In all honesty though,” Ignis says as they’re cleaning the dishes later side by side. Cor had tried to shoo him out, but he stood his ground, and so Cor allowed him to remain to finish this. “Please let me cook for you sometime. If not as a thank-you for this, then merely to give you something to look forward to after a long day.”

Cor hums softly, scrubbing at a particularly hard stain on a plate. “I’d like that,” he says at last. “Thank you, Ignis.”

“Anytime, sir.”

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

  
  


Eventually, he arrives back at Noctis’ apartment. Gladio is lying on the couch when he walks in, watching a program on TV, Noctis’ sprawling across him, sound asleep. He looks up as Ignis walks in, and nods, mouthing  _ “you okay?” _

Ignis merely nods, and heads for the kitchen, two bags of groceries in two. True to his expectations, the fridge is packed with half-eaten cartons of takeout. Ignis resists the urge to shove them all into the trash, unwilling to waste food, and instead starts shuffling things around so he can fit the rest of the groceries in.

“Cor done hogging you?” Gladio murmurs behind him, having slipped from beneath his Prince’s hold. 

“For now.”

“How’d it go?”

“Rather well, for a training session. He beat me into the ground as per usual, bathed me, fed me, and then made me a pot of coffee that tasted just like Ebony.”

“Did you ask him to marry you?” Gladio jokes.

“I tried, but alas, the wily devil declared he doesn’t put out on first dates. So we agreed on letting me cook for him some time.” He rises from the fridge, putting the bags aside to be later used, and then catches sight of Gladio’s face. “What on Eos are you grinning about?”

“Me? Nothing, nothing at all. I’m just… happy. S’all. Happy for ya.” He gives a friendly pat to Ignis’ arm, and then wanders back in the direction of Noctis, still looking oddly  _ pleased  _ about something. 

Ignis quickly shakes his confusion off; he’s dinner to prepare, and there’s no telling what mood Noctis will be in. Better get started.


End file.
